


past and forever

by exquisitecadaver



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames-centric (Inception), Emotions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Arthur (Inception), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 09:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18258287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exquisitecadaver/pseuds/exquisitecadaver
Summary: Eames has loved Arthur since he first discoveredhowto love.





	past and forever

**Author's Note:**

> please enjoy this rambling, purple prose mess that's far too parenthetical. i have a deep, deep love for bamf!arthur, so here he is!

Like all good things, it starts in Paris. 

It’s late July and they’ve just finished a job; the extractor and architect have both fucked off to god-knows-where, and Arthur and Eames (arthurandeames and eamesandarthur) are passing a bottle of vodka between themselves in celebration. Eames thinks vaguely that it might be around three in the morning, but he can’t be bothered to check. 

They are sitting on the bedroom floor of Arthur’s ridiculously large flat, and of-fucking-course Arthur owns prime Parisian real estate in _le premier arrondissement_ , and Arthur is at the moment drunkenly ranting about the superiority of cashmere to merino wool. Eames is struck, as he has been countless times before, with the realization that Arthur is _exquisite_. He says so, and Arthur frowns petulantly at him but blushes a little all the same.

“I could kill you with my left pinky,” Arthur mutters.

“Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Last-Name-Redacted,” Eames smirks. “Pass the bottle?” Arthur does, fingers lingering the barest fraction of a second too long against Eames’. And Eames thinks, too drunk to stop himself and not drunk enough to forget it in the morning, _This is home._

Which perhaps does not bode well for Eames’ psychological well-being, seeing as he has witnessed Arthur kill a man twice his size with a plastic spork. Arthur is, well, _Arthur_. Half of dreamshare is terrified of him, the other half wants in his extremely well-tailored pants. Arthur, who once lived through his best friend throwing herself off a building and still managed to pull Dominic Cobb out of the deepest pits of despair, Arthur, who is dangerous and deadly and oh-so sharp around the edges. Arthur, who is knives slid between ribs and bullets between eyes.

Arthur, who Eames is madly in love with. 

(He blazes incandescent and hotter than all hell. So bright that it hurts to look at him sometimes. Red-hot, don’t get too close.)

The thing is, Eames has loved Arthur before dreamshare was anything more than a fleeting idea in the collective minds of the US army. Before he began to hide his youth under bespoke Tom Ford and permanent hair gel, before the Cobol clusterfuck, before the Fischer job. Eames has loved Arthur since the first time he laid eyes on him in a dimly lit bar in Paris, fresh out of some ultra-classified government program, jaded and caustic and looking like he wanted to light a fire and watch the entire world burn to ashes.

Which is to say, Eames has loved Arthur since he first discovered how to love.

And Arthur has just stopped talking and turns his head and the first strains of daylight filtering through the windows catch his face just so, and he is so beautiful; a modern day Adonis. Drunk and loose and happy, perhaps as happy as he has ever been and ever will be. Eames suddenly can’t breathe; his throat seizes at the ephemerality of this moment— come morning Arthur will yet again be buttoned-up and frowning and hiding his misery behind the barrel of a silenced Beretta 92FS.

And really, it’s okay that Arthur doesn’t love him back and never will. Eames came to terms with that long ago.

-

It’s October now, and Eames is so alone. Sure, he has Yusuf, who texts him a cat picture everyday, and Ariadne, who calls sometimes to check in on him, but he is so alone. He has not heard from Arthur since that time in Paris, when Eames woke up cold and hungover and in an empty bed. He learned two things during that job: one, that the Russians don’t fuck around when it comes to alcohol, and two, that it’s time for him to let go of Arthur. He’s growing a little too old for unrequited crushes. 

(It’s anything but a crush, his love burns a hole straight through his chest and sends fire through his veins.)

So Eames trawls bars and clubs at night, burning through slim, dark-haired boys who _absolutely do not_ look like a certain pointman-criminal-killer-thief. He fucks them and forgets them. None of them are beautifully deadly and none of them carry thirteen different concealed weapons at any given time and _none of them are Arthur._

-

It’s December when Arthur, burning like a goddamn supernova, shows up at the door of the London flat Eames has been staying in for the past month with a crooked smirk and a brand new bullet hole ( _Medium caliber_ , Eames thinks) in his thigh and a deep cut ( _serrated knife_ ) across his shoulder. He smells like cordite, sickly sweet, and something darker, blood and steel and rage. What can Eames do besides open the door wider to let him in and watch as Arthur wordlessly lowers himself onto Eames’ sofa? 

Arthur stays.

He stays after his wounds heal, after his scars begin to fade, after he starts to lose the tension in his shoulders and the fury in his eyes. They start to take jobs now, always together, arthurandeames and eamesandarthur once again. Barrel against temple, one, two, pull the trigger. They’re something of a package deal, Rio to London to Tokyo to Paris. The best of the best. You want someone to disappear? Hire Arthur and Eames. You want to steal something? Hire Arthur and Eames. 

You want a secret? Well, they _are_ the best at that.

But they spend their days with their veins weighed down by Somnacin and desperate dreams, always looking over their shoulders for angry marks or turncoat clients/extractors/architects. 

“How do you feel about a vacation, darling?” Eames asks Arthur, a few months in.

So they stop taking jobs and start to move around, safehouse to safehouse, dropping aliases left and right, but always together. 

(They avoid Germany like the plague, though, the _polizei_ are still unreasonably upset over a very small incident that maybe involved a couple bombs. And a helicopter. 

And possibly the Prime Minister’s Aston Martin.) 

Beaches and forests and skyscrapers at night. And Arthur _must_ know how Eames feels; he sure as hell isn't subtle about it. He never says anything, just smiles that brilliant, beautiful smile and says frighteningly domestic things like could you pick up some milk today? Or we’re out of eggs, want me to buy some more?

It’s agonizing and wondrous and Eames has never been more content, but he can’t help the way he dreams of Arthur and watches him (the line of his throat and the cut of his suits) and still wishes for something more. 

(It’s not enough, never enough. In the same room yet worlds apart at the same time.)

-

It’s July again, and they’re in Mombasa. Yusuf is out on a job, so they’re staying in his flat with his morbidly obese cat. Arthur found a shady off license somewhere in the city, no doubt through his truly impressive criminal connections, and brought back a bottle of vodka. At least Eames thinks it’s vodka; it’s a murky hue and tastes a little like Satan’s asshole. 

“Just like old times,” is what Arthur says as he shoves the cat off his lap and cracks the bottle open. 

-

They are on the road to well and truly sloshed when Arthur says, out of nowhere, feigning offhandedness, “You know I’m a little bit in love with you, right?”. Eames chokes on his sip of maybe-vodka, and says, “ _What?_ ”. 

Arthur just smiles (brokenly, he looks fucking _shattered_ , and Eames would do anything to put his pieces back together) and says something along the lines of “I know you don’t feel the same, but I had to tell you. I just- I couldn’t-”. And Eames stops listening about then because, _what?_ Something inside him aches when he processes what Arthur just said, and really, how can Arthur be so oblivious? Eames can only laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of that.

Arthur’s mouth twists into a thin line and his face closes off, goes cold and empty; the fire is shielded behind icy eyes. “I see,” he says, and stands up to leave.

“Wait, no,” Eames catches his wrist, still laughing. 

“Eames, really. Don’t fucking mock me.” Arthur says flatly, twisting away from Eames’ grip.

“You don’t understand, darling. ‘I don’t feel the same way’? Are you- and I mean this in the best possible way- _stupid_?”

“What the hell do you mean,” Arthur says, feelingly, slumping onto the bed.

“Arthur. _Darling_. I’m in love with you. Arse over tits in love with you. Have been since, god, well, forever.” Eames says this soberly and very quietly, but it rings deafeningly in the silent room. Arthur’s mouth opens. Closes. The best pointman in the business, assassin and messiah and thief all at once; sharp, collected Arthur, _speechless_.

“We’re a couple of dumb bastards,” he manages eventually. “You- really…?” Eames doesn’t answer. He stands and steps towards where Arthur is sprawled across the bed. Sits on the edge of the bed. Presses his lips carefully to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, feather-light. 

Arthur is the kind of motionless that only comes with years of training, but when Eames’ breath ghosts across his cheek, he reacts, lightning quick. He flips them over, straddles Eames’ waist, and slams their lips together. As far as first kisses go, it’s probably the best Eames has ever had (and ever will have). Hot and dirty and wet, tongues and teeth and teeth and tongues. But it’s undeniably sweet all the same.

And it feels like coming home; they melt into each other, as easy as breathing, like the last puzzle piece fitting into place. 

This is what Eames has been waiting for since the first time he heard whispers of dreamshare, since the first time he pushed the plunger on a PASIV and swam through dreams of fire, the first time he slipped out of his own skin and into someone else’s. 

Arthurandeames and eamesandarthur.

-

(Forever, Eames thinks, this will last forever and in the end we’ll go up in flames and die holding hands. 

Immortal until death takes us both.)

**Author's Note:**

> i’m so emo for these two.
> 
> drop a comment or something... please... i require constant validation.
> 
> come scream with me about french grammar: /u/exquisitecadavre


End file.
